I haven't been updating nearly as much as I'd have liked, so most of my readers have probably gotten bored and wandered off to find something more reliable. If you're still here, I thank you. In a show of my appreciation, this chapter is not only longer than I usually do, but there's a pile of action in it.
During the march toward battle, Zaan was relieved to find the ache in his ribs lessening, but he still felt wretched. He was marching into battle alongside the forces of chaos. If someone had told him, even a month ago, that he was going to be fighting on this side of a battle, he would have challenged them to a duel for insulting his honour. The only consolation was that regardless of who he was fighting alongside, his enemies were chaos worshipers as well.
Besides which, a battlefield is a confusing place, how much different could the other group of chaos worshipers look? It didn't matter anyway. Whatever they might look like, any cultist that came within reach once ranks inevitably broke down into a melee would soon regret it.
Zaan had no idea how far they would be marching; he wasn't even sure of the direction. He was broken from his dark mood by a horrendous stench. He'd never experienced anything like it. As much as Liasha's subtle scent both aroused his desire and subdued his inhibitions, this revolting odour felt almost like a fist plunging down into his lungs and expanding. Each breath felt like it would be his last, the agony of feeling his lungs ravaged by an unending fire only lessened when he cut a strip of material from the leg of his trousers and wrapped it tightly over his nose and mouth.
Believing their enemy was near, he shifted his buckler into a fighting grip, and loosened up his sword arm. A bark of laughter from nearby was followed by some of the Norsemen's guttural language. He glanced around to find the source, and found that most of the Marauders nearby were at least smirking. He also noticed that none of them were showing any signs of combat readiness. Zaan had assumed that he had simply not noticed the first hints of the stink, but was is possible that these were the first signs? His definition of 'possible' had become much more expansive over the past few days, but even now that seemed unlikely, and yet they were clearly not as close to their foe as he'd thought.
The Norsemen were taking the painfully horrific air as stoically as seemed possible, barely showing signs of pain or disgust. Whether they had experienced it's like before or not, Zaan found it likely that they had grown up in a society that counted personal hygiene below decorative masonry. He was a child of the Brettonian courts however, and the smell of the Marauders themselves had affronted his sensibilities on their first meeting.
Zaan had three layers of silk across his mouth before he caught even the first glimpse of the other Chaos army. Cresting a hill, they saw the horde of enemies below them. The first image in Zaan's mind was of the tales he'd heard about the undead hordes that were occasionally reported as attacking certain provinces in the Empire. The beings massed together down by the forest moved in a similar shambling manner to the stories. After a moments observation however, he revised his description. The crowd of fleshy shapes was moving less than he'd originally thought. It was more that, even stationary, each one gave the impression of oozing.
The Slaaneshi forces had halted their march. Each unit forming up out of the respective groups. The Warriors in one place with Slaa'Khar at their head. The Marauders had formed up around their chieftain, though their ranks were less organized. The beasts also seemed to have a leader. They had split into two groups, a mix of large and small beastmen in each, and both lead by an armoured creature with a huge weapon. One held a massive axe above his head in one hand as he lead his beasts in a roar of anticipation. The other seemed to have simply taken an axe to the largest tree it could find and roughly removed most of the smaller branches from it's length.
Other forces had either been sent out ahead, or had joined them from elsewhere. Liasha had mounted a silver and purple chariot pulled by a pair of golden horses; with shocking pink manes.
Another group that Zaan had never seen before was a unit of cavalry, the sight of which made him wish he could return home and fight side by side with his father and brother. As familiar as the idea was to him, their appearance was something utterly bemusing. Each of the chargers had different coloured hair, which was not in itself unusual. However, never before had Zaan seen a horse with hair as blue as the ocean or red like blood. Only the centre horse could pass for a real horse anywhere else, but even this was strange. It was a truly white horse. Even the most traditional, pedantic stable-master would feel foolish calling it grey. Not that such a person would live for long after seeing it judging from the rider. His silver armour shone almost as pale as his steed, and the golden decoration matched the trappings on his horse. In spite of his clean, pure image he radiated a sense of dangerous focus; even at this distance Zaan could feel it. As if feeling his gaze, the knight's attention locked onto Zaan and he started as though struck. He almost looked away, but he saw on the edges of his vision that the marauders were edging away from him. They were obviously afraid of the knight, and Zaan wanted to separate himself from them in as many ways as he could, so he held the knights gaze for as long as he could, barely even letting himself blink until the urge to look away grew to strong to resist.
The Slaaneshi were lined up on the crest of the hill and while the Nurglite army drew closer, they held their ground. Considering Slaa'Khar's obvious violent nature, Zaan was somewhat surprised to find that he was being so tactically sensible. He didn't doubt that the Beastmen would be the first to charge, closely followed by the Norscan marauders. Even if they were given no order to advance, the men around him were obviously itching for violence, and from what he'd seen of the beasts, they had even less concern for their own safety.
He was proved correct barely a minute after his concerns first arose. He had, of course, considered that Slaa'Khar would use their impetuous charge as the signal of the start of battle, which is what Zaan would do in his position. Allow the expendable troops to charge, then assess the results of it before committing the more powerful and valuable units. It would be more 'beautiful' that way he thought, with a private smirk of irony.
The bleating roar of the Beastmen's charge down the hill was met with a cheer of approval from the marauders around him, and it wasn't long before they too began to make their heavy footed way down the hill; Zaan dragged along with them.
The footing on this side of the hill was more treacherous than he'd expected. Marching up it, the soil had been firm and strong; now, as they ran down towards their enemies, the ground was becoming damper. It felt more and more like the blood soaked field after a battle as they drew closer to the Nurglites, but something told him that it wasn't the blood of the fallen causing the degradation. It was going to make the battle more difficult, and it would only get worse as blood was actually spilled. He took a single glance at the enemy unit he had been dragged towards, and with a shock saw that they were all heavily armoured; and as rusted and ancient as the armour looked, he didn't doubt that it was any less effective than his own had been. The largest of the Nurglite Warriors was so obese it was almost unbelievable that he could have found armour that fitted him.
The time for contemplation was up and, as so often happened before combat, Zaan found that he was curious about the most unusual things, philosophical and practical questions that he would likely never have answers for had to be forced from his mind as he focused his mind, and loosened his muscles.
With a roar to match the Norscans he began to attack the enemy before him. Still somewhat unaccustomed to the heavy short-sword, his first swing at a rust-coated warrior was relatively weak, and was quickly deflected by the warrior's filthy mace, which swung back round and would have caved in Zaan's head had not a Norscan been hurled in the way by an overenthusiastic Nurglite. With the warrior off balance from the impact Zaan stepped in to take advantage. He rammed his blade in under the warrior's breastplate, and immediately regretted doing so. Not only did it fail to kill or even apparently injure the Nurglite, but what flowed from the wound was as far from blood as any fluid Zaan had ever witnessed. The only word to describe it was pus, and it dripped down his sword slowly, corroding the metal before it even touched it. Not wanting to find out what would happen if it touched his skin, Zaan pulled his hands away fast, abandoning the blade; as much in the hope that it would at least hinder his opponent as in reluctance to keep hold of it.
The Marauder whose death had saved Zaan's life had, much to Zaan's relief, kept hold of his weapon, so while he ducked under the Warrior's return swing, Zaan reached down to pick it up. It was barely any better quality than the sword now rotting in the Nurglite's gut, but it at least seemed longer.
He swung it at the Nurglite's weapon arm, but his target was pulled back in time and the blade only caught the haft of the mace. The impact damaged both weapons, but the mace would be almost unaffected by it, unlike Zaan's blade, which now boasted a dent the size of his fist in one edge. Zaan had one advantage over his opponent. As fast as the warrior seemed, in spite of his bulk and the creaking rusted armour he wore, Zaan's reactions were boosted by the fear flooding him with adrenaline. He moved to the Nurglite's off-hand side reversed his grip on the blade.
Before the Warrior could turn to face him, he rammed the point of his sword into the back of the larger man's knee joint. If there had been any response to the attack outside of the sound of the impact, Zaan might not have noticed the grunt accompanying an attack from a different quarter.
Unaware of the weapon type, Zaan evaded as much as possible. Diving to the muddy ground behind him. Liasha would probably be upset about the trousers, but what mattered more was the size of the blade that had slammed into the floor at Zaan's feet. Fortunately, it looked as though the force of impact had driven it too deep into the ground, and it's owner was having trouble getting it out again. The new warrior fought without a helmet, and Zaan wished that was not the case. Not only was he covered in weeping sores and drool, but even on the floor, Zaan could smell his body odour and halitosis. The stench permeated the three layers of silk across his face as though they weren't there, and it intensified with each breath the horror took.
The tide of combat had dragged Zaan's original opponent away, and he fervently hoped to never see him again, except on a corpse pile. He spared little time on curses, though; preferring to think of a way to kill the monster in front of him instead.
It was easier said than done, he assumed that this monstrosity would be at least as resilient as the first, and the fact it had swung it's sword with enough force to get it stuck so firmly into the ground meant it had a strength to match. It did seem preoccupied with it's weapon though. Just as Zaan was entertaining thoughts of avoiding the fight, a second marauder was thrown towards him and his opponent, this time he was less fortunate.
The heavily muscled Norscan collided with Zaan, knocking him do the ground and dazing him. Unaware, he struggled to his feet just as the huge Warrior finally managed to retrieve his sword with a massive heave. On a whim, Zaan picked up both his own dropped sword, and the axe that had been thrown his way with the Norscan's body. He didn't notice the blood that had covered him from the corpse, nor did he pay attention to the slickness of the axe haft. In his semi-conscious state his body was resorting to instinct, both natural instinct and that born of relentless combat practice.
There was a threat in front of him, and that could only result in one thing. He charged the Nurglite, weaving slightly as his vision swam in and out. His erratic path and soundless charge made the nurgle Warrior hesitate long enough that Zaan's attack landed first. He dashed inside the great sword's sweep and jumped. He swung both of his weapons into the enemy's head from either side, slicing the top of his cranium off with a brutal crack. The misjudged swings had not met cleanly, so it was only the momentum of the blows that broke the bone still holding together. The reek of the rotten brain matter was even worse than the already horrendous stench of the massive Nurglite.
Now splattered from head to toe in the viscera of friend and foe and barely able to discern the difference, Zaan staggered into the maelstrom of combat, hewing left and right, where his blows broke the skin and parted flesh, a manic grin flashed across his face. Where the blades rebounded off enchanted steel, he would round on the enemy and unleash a barrage of strikes until his primal mind was satisfied that they no longer posed any threat before resuming his rampage.
How many he struck and how many of those he actually harmed he hardly knew and cared less. Left untempered he would have ignored his own safety until one of the monstrous beings he fought with ended his existence. His unlikely salvation came in the form of thundering hooves and a crash of silvery steel through the melee in front of him.
The familiar sound and the smell of the horses, in spite of the unusual tint rushed his consciousness back to the surface and after a moment of whirling emotions, the horror at his own mental state surfaced as he felt the blood on his hands and dripping down him. The axe in his left hand was barely recognisable as such, it's blade was so notched and bent that it almost looked like a spiked club.
He dropped the almost worthless weapon in favour of the more reliable sword. Glancing round to take stock of his position, he saw the heavily armoured Slaaneshi Knights dealing out more punishment on the Nurglites than the entire mob of Marauders could have managed in triple the time frame.
Much to his surprise, the Knight's champion was being ignored by the leader of the Nurglites, who seemed more interested in the Norscan Chieftain. The huge man was dwarfed by his armoured opponent, whose enormous girth was even more intimidating at such close quarters.
Where most of his followers had simply wielded oversized weaponry, the leader of the Nurglite Warriors carried a shield as well. The sword in his right hand was still larger than a normal hand weapon. For a normal human it would have been a hand and a half, if not a double hander, but the Nurglite swung it with such speed and power that the Norscan could barely dodge each blow. The shattered pieces of his buckler, and the gash in his arm showed what had happened when he'd tried to block one.
For such an obese being, the Warrior had incredible stamina. It even looked as though the muscular Norscan was tiring first. The Warrior's swings were getting closer and closer. The sound of heavy steps alerted Zaan to a figure approaching behind him. He whirled around with his blade outstretched. He was surprised to find it blocked by the clean, silvery blade of a Knight's sabre biting into it. What had happened to their horse Zaan could only guess, which was as much as he could do about the figure's gender. He had little time to ponder either, as a voice came from within the helmet. It echoed more than he would have expected, but he could understand it's words clearly enough.
"Do you not care whom you strike, Slave to the Daemontongue?"
Zaan's incomprehension must have shown on his face, because the Knight's laughter rang out for a moment until he recalled Liasha's title within the Warband.
"One can never be too careful on the battlefield. Any soldier careless enough to be dispatched by someone facing away from them deserves whatever blade may end their life."
The knight paused for a moment, before striking Zaan across the face with a lightning quick blow. "Truth you may speak, but no slave may use such a tone to me. However favoured they may be." Another bark of laughter as Zaan turned back to face the Knight, his anger clear.
"Save your strength, favoured one. Others desire your attention more urgently than I." The Knight twisted the rusted sword out of Zaan's hand, and tossed him the unmarred blade. "I think you will need this more than I. As much as Lady Azyrash wishes your demise, I feel it would be more amusing to give you something of a chance." The Knight indicated the Nurglite behind Zaan, who dove to his left, rolling onto his back when he hit the floor. It seemed that the same trick would not work against this Warrior. He halted the blade's motion before it sank into the dirt, rounding on Zaan almost as quickly as Zaan rolled sideways, bringing his leg under him and rising to his feet.
He dodged back from the first few blows, almost allowing a pattern to form, but before the Nurglite lost patience and tried a new tactic, Zaan twisted around a diagonal slash, and brought himself inside the giant man's guard. The stench of the monstrous Warrior was almost unbearable and the amount of space Zaan had between gut and sword arc was barely enough to be useful. Gritting his teeth against the contact, he pulled himself round the huge stomach and pushed his opponent's shield arm up with his own body. Almost gagging at the revolting odour of the Warrior's armpit he thrust his borrowed blade into the space between arm and armour. He held onto the shield with his free hand and used it to protect himself while he twisted the curved blade into the Nurglite's rotten organs.
Soon the horrific smell became too much, and Zaan dropped to the floor, taking several swift steps away from his flailing foe. In his desperation, the Nurglite had dropped his huge sword to better remove Zaan. So while the huge Warrior unbuckled the shield from his injured arm, Zaan ran over to take the great blade.
As his hands closed around the blood-slick handle, a surge of strength flowed through him, and he lifted the heavy steel with as much ease as any of the other blades he'd wielded in his adult life. Rounding on the obese monstrosity, whose fear was evident in his posture, Zaan felt a malevolent grin pull at his lips. He charged at the Nurglite, and hacked of his sword arm with a single upward sweep of the massive blade. The second blow bit heavily into the bone of his right leg. Crippling the limb completely.
The Warrior lay prone now, corrupted blood oozing from his three gaping wounds. As little experience as Zaan had with the powers of Chaos, he doubted that such damage would necessarily be enough to end the Warrior. Hefting the sword onto his shoulder, he brought it down with a cry of triumph, severing the bloated creature's head.
As the adrenaline rush of his victory faded, he heard the Knight approach behind him. The Slaaneshi stopped just outside the sword's reach, and his caution brought another smile to Zaan's face. "You owe me a blade, slave."
He turned to the Knight, planting the point of his new weapon in the ground. "Your sword is perfectly intact. More-over, you know where it is. If you don't want it back, then that is hardly my business."
"My blade is ruined, corrupted by the filth of the plague god. I demand you replace it."
Now it was Zaan's turn to laugh. "If you want this sword you are willing to try and take it. Or you can take your case to the sorceress. She seems to enjoy confrontations like that." He turned and walked away, leaving the Knight to regret his over confidence. He felt an overwhelming desire to test his new sword on as many foes as he could find.
I'll try to upload the next one sooner than later, but I can't make any promises unfortunately. You'll just have to tough it out. [sarcastic irony]